


The Illness

by charlock221



Series: 5 times Albert Mason had perfect timing, and 1 time his timing was terrible [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, can be read as standalone, not THE illness though don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26894476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: 'Slowing his horse to a walk, Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes, wincing at the jabbing pain behind them. Sound was being amplified again, until the chirping birds and sounds of wildlife thrust shards of pain through his head. He was faintly aware that he was bending over his horse, tucking his face into the coarse mane in a futile effort to block out the sounds. His mouth had gone ashy again, and he was finding it hard to swallow with his tongue so dry.His fingers were tingling and the next thing he knew, he was waking up on the ground.'
Relationships: Albert Mason & Arthur Morgan, Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan
Series: 5 times Albert Mason had perfect timing, and 1 time his timing was terrible [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775863
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	The Illness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorrryyyyyyy, I know I'm trash for taking so long. You know when you're writing or doing something creative and at some point you're like, 'am I getting worse?' That was me with this fic. I had to take a break for a little bit so I didn't give up on it completely. I'm glad I did, otherwise I would have produced something I really didn't like.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it :)

His head had been pounding all day. Waking up in camp because John and Abigail were arguing again, Arthur had groaned at the oncoming headache and tried to fall back asleep. When the shouting had continued and his head had started throbbing, Arthur grumbled a curse and got up, staggering over to the stew pot for some coffee. Aside from John and Abigail, and Javier keeping watch nearby, no one else was about, so Arthur ambled over to the other side of camp where the voices were muted and less grating. He breathed in the coffee and mulled over what he was going to do for the day.

That had been three hours ago. John had marched off in a huff after his argument, and Abigail had approached Arthur and asked him to go keep an eye on him. Arthur hadn’t really wanted to go, knowing it wasn’t going to help his headache in the slightest, but Abigail’s tired eyes and weary voice had him riding after John, calling out for him and directing him to Van Horn. If he had to babysit a huffy child, he was at least going to do his jobs as well.

The day before, Trelawney had pointed him to a lucrative stagecoach passing through Roanoke Ridge. With the law stretched thin up north, Arthur had agreed it was an opportunity too good to miss, and so he told John what he had planned and they set off in pursuit.

The job went smoothly enough. The driver pulled over at the sight of their rifles, and the rich gentlemen inside stammered out pleas for mercy whilst handing over their wallets and the key to the lock-box. It was as they were riding back to Van Horn that things went south.

Arthur’s head was more painful than earlier. Being jolted up and down on his horse as they trotted along was making him feel sick, and an ashy taste was filling his mouth. Taking sips of water from his canteen helped a little, but not as much as he’d liked. With the headache drumming incessantly behind his eyes, he kept his gaze on his saddle and closed them every so often, trying to find some kind of relief from the pain. Beside him, John was still muttering about Abigail, and after fifteen minutes of constant complaining Arthur had had enough.

“Could you shut the hell up for five minutes?” he groused, his voice low even though he wanted to yell.

John shot a glare his way but surprisingly, didn’t snap back. “Sorry,” he muttered. “What’s the matter with you? You been pretty quiet.”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna get much chance of a nap when we get back to camp,” John said. “Soon as Dutch hears we’re back he’ll be sending us out on some other job. That or Uncle’ll be at your side looking for some change.”

If he was in a better mood, Arthur would have enjoyed the chance to gripe about the gang. He’d die for any one of them, except maybe Micah, but that didn’t mean they didn’t piss him off now and then. Now though, he just wanted John to stop talking so he could ride in peace.

“I know,” he said shortly. He wasn’t looking forward to getting back. John was right; as two of Dutch’s best shooters, they’d be turned around as soon as they returned.

John fell quiet, and Arthur tried to enjoy the silence, but the more he sought after some peace, the more he became aware of annoying little sounds around him. The horses’ hooves, birds cawing from the trees, the occasional distant gunshot. They jabbed and jarred at his headache until he was riding with his eyes closed fully, his hands clenched around the reins.

“Hey, did you ever find one of them penny dreadfuls Jack was after?” John asked five minutes later. Arthur frowned, unwilling to start talking.

“No. Not yet.”

“Shame,” John commented. Arthur could hear him rustling around in his satchel, but he didn’t have the energy to look. “He’s been pretty sad lately, and I think his crying is starting to annoy Dutch.”

“Why don’t you take him out of camp for once?” he muttered.

“I was thinking,” John replied, his tone sharper as he spoke, “that it might benefit all of us if you found a book for him.”

Arthur sighed. “I ain’t in the mood, Marston. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Well then here, I’ll make it easier for you.”

Arthur opened his eyes to see John holding out a children’s book to him. When Arthur didn’t take it, he shook it. “Come on. My arm’s aching.”

Arthur took it with another frown. “Why don’tcha give it to him yourself?”

“Because as much as you like to call me dumb, I ain’t too stupid to see how ragged you look. Take a couple hours for yourself. Hell, take the rest of the day. I’ll tell Dutch you’re out looking for a way to cheer Jack up.”

Arthur slowly tucked the book into his satchel. “Don’t you think Abigail would like it if you gave it to him?”

John snorted. “Nothing I do today will soften her up,” he said, but he was smiling. “I’ll make it up to her some other way.”

“Alright,” Arthur said. “I appreciate it, Marston.”

John waved him off. “Don’t mention it. When we were kids you covered for me more times than I can count; it’s about time I repaid the favor.” He kicked his horse into a canter. “Be sure to get back before night.” Before Arthur could say anything else, he rode off, rounding a corner and disappearing through the trees within moments.

Still surprised by John’s consideration, Arthur was blank on what he should do next. His head was still hurting relentlessly, but he was concerned about stopping by the road and setting up a tent. This was Murfree Brood country, and he’d seen what those animals did to unsuspecting folk. In pain and not thinking straight, Arthur could easily be snuck up on. It was probably best to carry on to Van Horn, although finding a quiet spot in that small town sounded unlikely. Perhaps he’d just keep on riding.

Slowing his horse to a walk now that there was no urgency to be somewhere, Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes, wincing at the jabbing pain behind them. Sound was being amplified again, until the chirping birds and sounds of wildlife thrust shards of pain through his head. He was faintly aware that he was bending over his horse, tucking his face into the coarse mane in a futile effort to block out the sounds. His mouth had gone ashy again, and he was finding it hard to swallow with his tongue so dry.

His fingers felt tingly and the next thing he knew, he was waking up on the ground.

He was sprawled in the middle of the road, his vision fading in and out. Arthur knew he had to move in case any riders or carriages come by, and so with a long groan he got to his feet. His horse was nowhere to be seen, and with a quiet curse he stumbled away from the forest where he would inevitably be lost forever, and instead headed to where he could see a river. Van Horn sat on that river, so as long as he kept it in sight, he’d come to the town eventually. Assuming he was going in the right direction, of course.

He didn’t get very far. Staggering through the tall grass and closing his eyes every so often, Arthur didn’t see the lip of the bank until he was tumbling over it, falling a short distance onto solid train tracks with a sharp shout. Luckily, his head had been cushioned by his arms, but that wasn’t enough to prevent a surge of pain at the sudden movement. Wincing at his body’s protestations, Arthur kept his head down, hoping for a brief respite so he could get up again.

It was as he was preparing himself to move that the train came. The horn blared in the distance, and Arthur was doused in fear, chilling his entire body. He ignored his pounding head and got his hands beneath him, pushing himself up whilst leaning heavily against the bank he’d fallen down. His legs were so weak, though, as if they were delicate matchsticks, and he knew with a sinking feeling that they wouldn’t carry him across the track.

He could see the train now, how rapidly it was coming towards him, and Arthur resigned himself to praying that pressing himself against the bank would give him enough space. It was then he heard what sounded like a shout above him, and then someone dropped down beside him and grabbed his waist, pushing him across the track. Arthur fell onto his back and saw the train speed past him, dirt pelting his face as he was deafened by the horn. It was gone as quickly as it had thundered into view, leaving Arthur breathing heavily and trying not to throw up.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Albert Mason leaned over him, his eyes wide.

“ _What the devil is wrong with you_?” he demanded, his voice higher than it usually was. Arthur winced at the volume and instead of answering, he rolled away and vomited into the grass, grateful for Mason’s grip on him that kept him from tipping over.

“Good to see you, Mr. Mason,” Arthur croaked, sitting up with a groan.

“I should hope it is,” Mason said, his eyes looking Arthur up and down. “You look awful.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Are you sick? Why were you–”

Arthur held up a hand, wanting to prevent the onslaught of questions Mason was clearly desperate to ask.

“S’just a headache,” he said. “I get ‘em a lot. Sometimes they’re worse than usual.”

“I saw you walking towards the bank but you must not have heard me. I thought you were trying to–” He stopped and cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Let me help you home.”

“No, no, I ain’t going home yet. I just need an hour to sleep it off, and I’ll get no chance to if I go home.” Arthur began getting to his feet, this time with Mason helping him up. “If you’ll help me find my horse, I’d appreciate it, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Where are you going to go if it’s not back home?”

Arthur shrugged, looking around for any sign of his horse. “Ain’t sure yet. Might have to rent a room in Van Horn and hope it ain’t too noisy there.”

Mason looked back up the bank, a small frown on his face. “I believe I came across your horse standing by the road just over there,” he said, pointing back in the direction Arthur had come from. “I’ve left my own up there, too.” Arthur took a step towards the bank, but Mason held his arm. “Please. I’ll go and fetch them.” He hurried off before Arthur could argue, marching alongside the bank before finding a less steep part and pulling himself up.

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His heart was still frantically beating from the near-death experience, and he was trying his hardest not to throw up again. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened had Mason not come across him. How long would it have been until his body was found, mangled and barely recognizable? Who would have been the first to learn of his death in camp? He shouldn’t have let John ride off without him; he’d had awful headaches like this one before, although this was the first time he’d passed out. Usually he’d try to find a dark and quiet place to hole up until he didn’t feel so terrible. If John had been happy to let Arthur slack off for the afternoon, he probably wouldn’t have minded staying with Arthur for an hour or two while he tried to sleep the pain away. He should have asked, his pride be damned. Instead, he kept it to himself, even though he’d been feeling rough all morning and knew it would likely get worse, and he’d almost died because of it.

There were some trees nearby, and he wanted nothing more than to sit under one of them and close his eyes for a bit, but he knew that if he sat down now it would be much harder to get back up. His attention was drawn back to Mason, who had found another way down the bank and was leading their horses behind him. He was talking to them, although Arthur couldn’t hear what he was saying, and when Mason looked up and caught his eye he stopped, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

“Appreciate it, Mr. Mason,” Arthur said, reaching out for the reins, but Mason pulled them away.

“Actually, Mr. Morgan, I was wondering if you might help me. If you’re not busy.”

Arthur held back a sigh. As much as he enjoyed spending time with Mason for some reason, he really didn’t want to do anything too strenuous now. Not after he’d just passed out and nearly died. Surely Mason understood that?

“I’d like to, but I ain’t gonna be able to do much if you need me to protect you from a cougar or something, except maybe throw myself at it while you get away,” he said dryly, smiling slightly at the horrified look on Mason’s face.

“Oh goodness, no. I wouldn’t ask you to do such a thing even if you were feeling up to it. No, no, I’m just looking for a bit of advice. I’ve been photographing some beautiful birds lately and now I’m after a heron or two. I’ve been following the river but I’ve had no luck so far.”

“You need to keep going south,” Arthur answered. “They’re closer to Saint Denis than Van Horn.”

“Ah. That’ll be why, then,” Mason said with a chuckle. “If I might ask one more favor,” he added, “the rowboat I’ve been using has gotten stuck on the sand, and I can’t get it back in the water. It’s what I was trying to do when I saw you riding past.”

Arthur frowned, “I thought you rode up behind me,” he said. He’d definitely heard Mason drop down from the bank to push him out of the train’s way.

“Well yes. I thought I’d catch up to you and say hello,” he said, suddenly looking everywhere but Arthur.

Arthur couldn’t help smiling. “I’m real glad you did.” He took the reins from Mason and nodded down to the river. “Show me to your boat, then.”

Mason smiled back and they crossed the gentle slope down to the Lannahechee River. As they got closer, Arthur could see the waves lapping lazily at the shore, the sun glinting off the water, and he breathed in deeply, glad to be away from the forest where the creatures and birds had been bothering him. He liked being near water; part of the reason he enjoyed fishing so much was because he felt calmer doing such a simple task in a quiet environment. It was also why, when the gang had arrived in Clemens Point, he’d made quick work in setting up his tent near the lake. It would have been perfect if Dutch and Molly hadn’t set theirs up so close.

When they reached the shore, though, there was no marooned boat. Instead, it was half in the water, waiting for a gentle push to get it back in the river.

Mason hummed. “Oh, it must have moved. I could have sworn it was further up the shore.”

Arthur was beginning to remember why he enjoyed bumping into Mason. “Moved, huh?” The man always surprised him.

“Strange, indeed.” He shrugged. “Well, since you’re here, why don’t you join me?” He looked to Arthur with raised eyebrows, a glint in his eyes.

“This was just a ploy to get me in your boat?”

Mason’s expression softened. “Though we don’t see each other very often, I know you enough to know you’d have refused if I asked you when we were near the tracks.”

Arthur didn’t want to intrude, not when he wasn’t in the best of moods. “It’s real tempting, Mr. Mason, but I–”

“I’m asking to be polite, Mr. Morgan,” Mason interrupted. “I’m asking because I’d enjoy your company.”

Arthur frowned. “I ain’t sure I’d be very good company.”

“I know,” Mason said, “You still look pale. In all honesty, I don’t like the thought of you riding off with no clear idea of where you’re going. It would certainly put me at ease, having you with me.” He trailed off at the end, his voice fading to a murmur.

Arthur looked out to the river, at the smooth surface inviting him in. “Might be best, come to think of it, to accompany you. You ain’t forgotten about the gators in Lemoyne, have you?”

Mason brightened, hurrying over to the boat. “Oh, you’re absolutely right. I’d not even considered the danger I was walking – well, rowing – into. Sit, sit.”

Arthur rolled his eyes when Mason offered his hand to help him in. He waved him away and sat on the narrow bench, glad to take the weight off his feet. Mason pushed the boat into the river and hopped in behind him. Arthur reached for the oars but Mason batted his hands away.

“I can do it, Mr. Morgan. I just watched you fall off a bank and stumble into a train’s path. If you think I’m letting you exert yourself anymore then you don’t know me at all.”

Arthur smiled gratefully and turned his attention to the water as Mason began to row. The photographer whistled, and their horses began walking along the shore, matching the boat’s leisurely pace.

“Feel free to tell me to be quiet at any point,” Mason said. “I shan’t be offended.”

“Be quiet, then.”

Mason huffed a laugh. Arthur kept his gaze on the river, leaning his head in his hand as he watched one of the oars cut smoothly through the water, a faint ripple the only noise to come from it. His head was still hurting, but Arthur realized he had been less aware of it when talking with Mason. At least now, it wasn’t going to be made worse with any sudden sounds to surprise him. The light was still bothering his eyes, though, and Arthur closed them, aware that he was leaning heavily into his hand, but too relaxed to do anything about it.

“You’re drooping,” Mason commented, drawing Arthur out of his brief doze. He grunted and sat up, breathing in and rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“By all means, take a nap, Mr. Morgan. I just think you’ll wake up feeling worse if you fall asleep in that position. Why don’t you stretch out along the bottom? I’ve got a…” Mason’s voice tightened and Arthur looked to see him reaching for something behind him. He turned back with a tartan blanket in his hand. He tossed it to Arthur and said, “Might be a little comfier if you spread that out.”

Arthur shook out the blanket and did as Mason instructed. If he was feeling better, he would be embarrassed to fall asleep in front of the other man. It felt a little rude to be invited along, only to spend that time sleeping. He was too tired to disagree, though, and so he stuffed his satchel in the nook at the front of the boat and laid down, his head meeting the satchel while his feet slid under the bench he’d just been sitting on. They bumped Mason’s legs but before Arthur could move them away, Mason directed them to one side, a smile on his face as he nudged Arthur’s calf with his heel.

Arthur pulled his hat over his face, his eyes already drifting closed. “Wake me up in twenty minutes,” he muttered. Mason hummed in response, and moments later the sound of the lapping water lulled him to sleep.

* * *

Arthur woke slowly. The water that had helped him drift off was now tugging him back to consciousness, and he was pleased to note that while his headache was still there, it was nowhere near as painful as it had been. He no longer felt sick, and the light didn’t seem to be piercing through him. His hat had fallen off his face at some point, and when he opened his eyes, Arthur could see Mason standing over his camera, alternating between peering through the viewfinder and straightening to look at something on the shore. He was talking quietly to himself, a pleased expression on his face, and Arthur smiled as his eyelids lowered again, pulling him back under.

* * *

There was a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Arthur?”

He groaned and shifted, turning his head to the side to try and get back to sleep.

The hand squeezed him, a thumb rubbing up and down.

“I need you to wake up, now.”

Arthur could feel himself frowning as he tried to open his eyes. He never got such a soft wake up in camp. Normally, Dutch would shake him awake to tell him something, or Pearson shouting for the gang to get some food would jolt him out of his sleep. He had no idea who was talking this quietly to him but he didn’t want it to stop.

“I’ve been bitten by an alligator.”

Arthur’s eyes shot open, suddenly remembering where he was and who he was with. Before he could sit up, Mason was holding him down, squeezing him again. He was kneeling next to Arthur, tucked against the side of the boat, his lips lifting into a smile.

“I thought that might work,” he said, amusement laced in his tone.

Arthur groaned again and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Can you blame me?” he croaked, “You’re always getting into trouble.”

Mason laughed. “Lately, it feels like it’s the other way around.” He dragged his satchel towards them. “You ought to drink something.”

“I got my own,” Arthur said, sitting up slowly and finding his canteen. “How long was I asleep?”

“About two hours.”

Arthur nearly choked on his water. “I thought I told you to wake me after twenty minutes.”

“Yes, but I was hardly going to do that, was I? You could barely stand upright, and twenty minutes wasn’t going to fix that. You’re looking much livelier now, though,” Mason said, his brown eyes looking over Arthur’s face. “More color in your cheeks. How’s your head?”

Arthur glanced down at his lap, suddenly aware of just how close Mason was to him. “Better. Still there, but not so bad.”

“That’s good news,” Mason said, still smiling at him. “I was a little concerned the sound of the camera would wake you up.”

“Nah. I didn’t hear a thing. You get some good shots?”

“I certainly hope so,” Mason answered, looking to the shore. “There were plenty of herons, and it’s been a beautiful day, so the only liability is the skill of the photographer.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn out fine,” Arthur said. “They usually do.”

“You’re very kind. We’re just near Bluewater Marsh,” Mason said, and it was then Arthur realized Mason had rowed the boat back to land. “In fact, you can see Sisika over there.”

“This is as close as I’d like to get to that place,” Arthur commented, beginning to get up. Mason jumped to his feet and tried to get out of the way, but the boat dipped and he stumbled backwards, kicking over both of their satchels. He regained his balance on his own, but Arthur still had one hand outstretched, knowing how clumsy the photographer could be.

“Oh, blast it,” Mason said, looking at the various items that had spilled out of their satchels. “The afternoon was going too smoothly, I suppose something had to give.” He knelt back down and began picking things up, shooing Arthur away when he made to bend down. “Let me, let me. I promise not to pinch anything of yours.” Jack’s book was one of the items that had slipped out, and Mason paused when he spotted it, picking it up gently and looking at the front cover for a while before sliding it back into Arthur’s satchel.

“ _Otis Miller and the Boy from New York_ ,” Mason read, smiling slightly as he handed over Arthur’s satchel. “I remember reading that as a child. I think I had the whole series.”

“It’s a gift. It ain’t mine,” Arthur said, stepping off the boat. His reading comprehension was a little better than a child’s, and he wanted to make sure Mason knew that.

“No, I didn’t think it was.” The photographer was staring down at his own satchel, having gathered up his possessions. He cleared his throat and glanced at Arthur. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Arthur answered. “Jack.” He tapped his satchel. “Enjoys these things a lot more than his old man.” The thought of John picking up a penny dreadful made him smile.

“I remember them being very entertaining,” Mason said. His own smile was strained, and he was moving over to his horse as they spoke. “The life of a gunslinger seemed a thrilling one.”

“I reckon it’s less thrilling and more draining,” Arthur muttered, approaching his own horse.

“One might even say headache-inducing,” Mason answered, and when Arthur shot him a look he smiled. “I shan’t keep you, Mr. Morgan.” He mounted his horse and patted it absent-mindedly. “I’m sorry for letting you sleep longer. I didn’t know you had a family waiting for you. Have a safe trip.”

“See you around, Mr. Mason. Thanks again for…” He trailed off as Mason galloped past him, a frown on his face. He didn’t recall ever mentioning members of the gang to the photographer, but he must have done if Mason had concluded that he had some kind of family. He shrugged off the odd goodbye and began the journey back to Clemens Point, feeling much better than he had that morning. He wondered what the next encounter with Mason would bring.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to that one time last year when I fainted for no apparent reason.
> 
> This is the point when the next installments are going to relate more directly to each other. Thank you everyone who's been reading this series, I'm sorry it's taking so long to complete! As always, I love getting comments, so let me know what you think!


End file.
